More footsteps clunked on the boardwalk. They were quicker this time. Blair ducked. The dynamite next door blew the wall out of the mercantile. Dust from the dry goods filled the building with a thick cloud. A rack of rifles fell on Blair. The barrel of one left a good-size welt on the back of his head.
He scrambled out of the rubble to find the door blocked by broken lumber. He grabbed three sacks of coffee and tossed them through what was left of the front window, clearing out the glass.
Blair stepped through the frame.
“Move it, mister. This one’s going up too.” The man said as he lit a bundle of dynamite. “We ain’t gonna lose this town to fire.” Two other men lit and tossed bundles through the open window.
They ran.
* * *
Jeremiah Pruitt studied Daniel Stone, who sat there as if the world was at peace, and he was ready to celebrate.
“Did you finish your task? It’s an easy question,” Stone asked.
“Blair?”
Stone nodded.
“Not yet.” Pruitt checked the front room of the Colorado Mine and Exploration Company building. He was safe inside, but needed reassurance no one or nothing followed.
“Then what are you doing back here? Are you scared to be out in the street?”
“Have you seen what’s going on out there?” He scanned Stone’s office.
“Yes.” The superintendent lifted the bowl-shaped glass to his nose and inhaled, then took a sip.
“What are you doing just sitting there—waiting for those creatures to come in here and kill you?”
Stone laughed loud and long. It annoyed Pruitt.
“You’re crazy.” He checked the front room again.
“Not in the least. Unlike yourself.”
“What did you say to me?”
“You are the one who spent time in the hospital for ‘mental stress.’”
“How do you know?” Pruitt’s secret had been exposed. His name was changed, so the hospital records could not reveal it.
“I know many things about you, Harold.”
No one knows my real name. He fidgeted with his pistols.
“I do. I also know about the priest who taught you how you use your other pistol. You were so young for such lessons. He was your second kill. Isn’t that correct, the night you escaped?”
Pruitt reacted the only way he knew how when he was threatened. He pointed a pistol at Stone and locked the hammer back.
“Don’t bother.”
“Who are you?”
Stone leaned forward and placed his cigar on a large marble ashtray.
“Stay where you are.” His curved thumb played with the hammer.
“Harold, this is no time for tears. Be a man. Oh, are you a real man? Or did the priest change that?”
Pruitt’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt his teeth. Hate poured from his heart. He fired two rounds into the superintendent’s stomach, hoping Stone would die slowly. Painfully.
The bullets rocked Stone back in the chair. He cried out and whimpered. Pruitt smiled. Then the whimpering changed to laughter.
“Come now, Harold. I told you not to bother.” Stone moved to his feet. “You made me spill my brandy. I should take that out of your pay.” He set the glass on the desk and blotted his sleeve with a handkerchief. “Such mischief.”
Pruitt couldn’t find a rational explanation for what happened. Stone took the bullets. His body reacted.
“Blood.” Stone began blotting his shirt, which had two bullet holes with traces of blood. “This shirt will definitely come out of your pay. It came all the way from New York as a special order.”
Pruitt stood motionless. Dumbfounded.
“Now, about Blair.” Stone glared at Pruitt. “You all right? You look ill.”
Blair had been gunned down in the street to only return hours later. The man must be the same. But the same what he couldn’t figure out. Fear entered his body like a disease, foreign and unwanted. His hands shook. Instinct took over and he lifted his pistols to finish off the superintendent.
Stone held up his hand and spoke in a language Pruitt did not understand. The force of the words knocked him back into the front room.
“I’ve promised you riches. And safety from the law. So don’t play games with me,” Stone said in a deeper voice. “Go. Kill. Blair.” He raised his hand again with a force that drove Pruitt somersaulting through the front window.
Pruitt tumbled down the stairs onto the dirt street. The broken glass scratched and cut him in several places. Bleeding, he forced himself to his hands and knees.
Stone smiled at him through the jagged remains of the window. “Don’t fear the bites. I’ll protect you.” He placed the cigar in his lips and inhaled, then blew a smoke ring. “But don’t get yourself killed.” His face was visible, including his black eyes.
What are you?
Chapter Fifteen
Possession
“Excuse me,” Frederick Worthington said to the nameless form in his way. The crawlspace under the church was black as the surrounding coal mines. “Excuse me.” He moved passed someone else. “Here it is.” He struck a match giving a small amount of light to the dirt hole. He lifted the glass cylinder of a lantern to light the wick. It burned bright. The professor could see the entire space and faces within. The dirt room was at least ten feet long and six feet wide, and deep enough for an average-size person to stand bent over. The ceiling was the underside of the church floor. The dirt walls were reinforced with pine lumber. With the dry air and no termites, the wood would last for years.
“Let me see the boy,” he said.
“He’s bit.” Mary Collins cried. “He’s bit.”
“Oh, no,” Mitch’s daughter-in-law said. “We have to get out of here.”
“Stay calm. Everyone stay calm.” The professor knelt down. “Let me see him.” He held the lantern up to Duane’s pale face. He was sweating and his eyes twitched as if a vivid dream played behind his lids.
The professor sat next to Mitch’s family. “My name is Frederick Worthington. What are yours?”
“I’m Bruce and this is my wife, Sarah.”
“It’s a pleasure, ma’am, despite the circumstances.”
Sarah did her best to smile out of politeness.
“This is Matthew and Rebecca.” The children kept their faces snuggled safe in the arms of their parents.
“Folks, we’ll be fine in here. No one knows about this place. Not even Pastor Jones knew.” The professor glanced at Jones to see if he had settled down. “We’ll stay here until morning. Then head to Crested Butte to catch the train to Gunnison.”
“Frederick, what about the boy?” Sarah pointed with a shaky finger.
Duane screamed.
Worthington put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and one on Bruce’s. “I’ve seen you before at church. It’s time to start praying… for him… and for us.”
* * *
Jonathan Blair ran from the Gothic Mercantile and Co. building. The fuses on the bundles of dynamite were short. He dove behind a flipped-over wagon as an explosion blew debris into the sky. Three buildings were leveled in hopes of preventing the fire from completely burning down the town.
Blair needed a safe place to wait for the sun. The bright light would drive the demons back into the dark places of Gothic. Then they could be hunted down and killed. Or could the possessed be saved? Blair didn’t have time to debate that.
He peeked over the wagon. The fire lit up the town. He studied the church. The front doors were open, but no one came or went. Was Duane still in there? Was he safe? He sprinted to the church and slowly went inside. A creature held a man in a suit as it either chewed or sucked on his neck. Blair put one bullet in the demon’s head.
He searched the room, lifting pews and moving bodies. Duane wasn’t there. The professor must have gotten them all out. He must have. At least that is what he kept telling himself.
Blair stepped outside. A few blocks away, a group of men c
arrying axes walked toward him. He couldn’t see the faces through the smoke filling the streets, but it had to be the Hungarians. They were coming to his rescue. About time they showed up.
* * *
Jeremiah Pruitt broke in to Doc Parker’s office to bandage up his cuts. He damaged the door so it wouldn’t shut, leaving him vulnerable to attack. And if the fire spread, he didn’t want to be stuck hiding in Doc’s closet. A large group of miners wielding axes and guns stalked through the middle of town. As they neared, he saw the Hungarians. He opened the door to speak to them.
The crew walked in the formation of a circle. A man stumbled into the streets from the side of the Doc’s building. Two crew members fired without asking a question, killing him. As the ring moved over the man, János Kovách paused before he took off his head with three chops of his ax.
“Ne kukoricáz.” Péter shot János a scowl.
“I know, I hesitated,” János said.
“You’ve got to be faster. More efficient.”
“To the church.” Sándor Varga said.
Pruitt, before making any other move, yelled out, “Don’t shoot. I’m coming out.” The Hungarian Crew shifted their barrels at Pruitt. With his guns drawn but pointed down, he slid his feet onto the boardwalk.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked. If the Hungarians had survived this long, there was a good chance they’d make it until morning. The more guns the better.
The crew members waited on the uncle for the answer.
“Are you wanting protection or to kill this evil plague?” András Kovách held up his ax.
“To kill.” That’d always been an easy answer for Pruitt.
“Then you are welcome to come with us.”
Pruitt stepped down to the dirt street. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re going to kill the head vampír now.”
“The head vampire?”
“If we kill it, the others will leave or be easier to kill,” András Kovách said. “And maybe some of the miners might be saved.”
“Where is it?” Pruitt thumbed his pistols.
“There he is.” András Kovách pointed at Jonathan Blair standing on the front porch of the church three blocks away. “Don’t let Blair run. I’ll give the order and don’t stop shooting until he quits moving.”
Pruitt spotted Blair standing on the porch. He snickered. “I’ll do it.”
“Don’t get too eager,” Sándor Varga said. “He’s already been gunned down once.”
“Twice.” Pruitt stared at Blair. If he’s the lead vampire, then what is Stone? Over his shoulder he saw Stone standing in front of the Colorado Mine and Exploration Company smoking his cigar while the other side of the street burned.
“Can there be two?” he asked.
“Two what?” Sándor Varga raised an eyebrow at Pruitt.
“Two head vampires.”
András Kovách left the group and inched closer to Pruitt. “Why do you ask?”
Pruitt paused to think about how he should answer the question he blurted out. Stone and Blair were enemies. Could there be two groups of vampires? The fact he thought about real vampires was hard enough to comprehend. Stone ordered Blair’s death; what did that mean? Why did Stone tell him not to worry about the bites?
“Mr. Phillips?” András Kovách inched closer.
“Could there be rival vampires?” Pruitt asked.
Sándor Varga went face to face with Pruitt. “Tell us what you know. Now.”
Pruitt stepped back. “I shot Stone, the mine superintendent, and he didn’t even squeal. He got right up and shoved me out the window without using his hands.” Pruitt stared Varga in the eyes but searched his own memory of what happened in the office.
“Ket vampírs.” Varga held up two fingers. “We must hurry.”
“First, Mr. Blair.” András directed his crew toward the church. “Then to kill Mr. Stone.”
The group passed Pruitt, who was still trying to make sense of what was happening. Stone waved from his perch. “I’ll be coming for you,” he whispered.
* * *
Jonathan Blair put his left hand on his right shoulder to feel the bite wound. It still hurt, but the bleeding had slowed enough that it didn’t come through the bandage. His new shirt was stiff and itchy. The Hungarian Crew stopped and talked to a man who joined them. Another gun is always good in fight.
Tension drifted off his back as the crew moved closer. The small group of warriors would fight to the death to stop Stone and his wicked imps.
Walking out of the smoke, the crew transformed from their circle to a semi-circle facing the church. His bounty stood between Péter and János Kovách.
“What’s Pruitt doing with you?”
They didn’t answer, which Blair was sure meant his situation just went from an unusually bad day to one he might not live through.
“What’s going on?”
A man at the end of the arc raised his shotgun and unintentionally stepped in front of Pruitt.
“Get the hell out of the way.” Pistols in hands, Pruitt shoved the vigilante out of his line of sight. The man unloaded both barrels. Blair dove into the church. Shotgun blasts hit the door frame. Blair scrambled behind a knocked-over pew as his heart pounded. “What the hell was that about?”
One of those men must have been in the church when he got bit.
“I’m not infected!” he yelled through the open door.
“You are worse!” András Kovách yelled back in his thick accent.
“This ain’t good.” Blair crawled to a window and peeked out. Three men worked their way to that side of the building. He searched his mind for other options, besides jumping out and running.
Blair had to make a choice—to live or die. He didn’t want to kill anyone. Life was returning to the status of being precious, and he didn’t want to taint that. But these men weren’t innocent. They murdered Theo Weinberg and Deputy Jarod. With Pruitt now one of their companions—guilt no longer ate at Blair.
He sat on the floor next to the possessed man he killed earlier. “Your death is not in vain.”
Blair picked up the body and man handled him out the window. The corpse landed limp in the dirt. The three crew members sprung toward the bait and opened fire. With their concentration on their kill, Blair aimed carefully from the inside the dark church. He set his barrels on the two men farthest away and fired. He switched to the third man. Three bullets. Three deaths.
Blair dropped to the floor and checked the windows across the room.
That leaves nine or ten. Did I count twelve or thirteen? “Come on, think.” He tapped his forehead with the barrel of his pistol. Twelve plus Pruitt; okay, that’s thirteen. Three down. That’s ten. “Ten.” I can’t get them all. “Not with Pruitt in the mix.”
The silhouette of a head and gun barrel popped up in the empty windowsill directly across from Blair. He fired three shots, one at the head and two through the wall below the sill. “Nine.” He reloaded one gun at a time.
“Don’t shoot, Mr. Blair.” The Hungarian voice came from the door.
“Why not?”
“I want to speak with you before you die,” Sándor Varga said.
“Is that what you said to Theodore Weinberg before you beat him to death?”
“He was getting in our way.”
“That doesn’t make me feel very social.”
“Come now, Mr. Blair. I want to know.”
“Know what?”
“What you are.”
“Come on in.”
Sándor Varga strutted up to the open doorway. The only weapon Blair could see on him was an ax. With his right hand, Varga clutched it under the metal head, letting the long handle hang, almost touching the floor.
“That your welcoming gift?” Blair moved in the shadows.
“No. I intend to use it on your neck.”
“At least you’re honest.” He stayed low so Varga could not see him.
“Why have you come to Gothic to
spread your curse?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t tease me. I’m not stupid, demon.” Varga strained his eyes in the dark building.
“Demon? You think I’m part of this?” The bite didn’t triggered their reaction to him. “What did Pruitt tell you about me?”
“Pruitt?”
“Phillips, the guy with you.” He moved again.
“He said nothing about you, just your friend, Mr. Stone.” Varga leaned side to side peering into the unlit sanctuary.
“It’s Stone you want. Not me. He’s the reason for all this.”
“We’ll visit him next. But what about you, Mr. Blair? Explain your miraculous healing today.”
That was the reason they came to kill him. The Hungarians believed he was the head vampire because of Mr. Tab’s healing powers on his body. “You wouldn’t believe me.” He still had a hard time believing it.
“Any last words?”
Something scraped against an outside wall. Blair checked his left. A man scrambled through the window to his right. Blair adjusted and fired. The attacker screamed. He shifted back to his left and squeezed off another round, hitting a human shape. Seven left.
The footsteps were quiet, but Blair could feel the floor vibrate. Varga ran toward him with the ax in the air. He stepped over two dead bodies and lunged toward him. Blair rolled out of the way of the driven ax.
Blair fired, sending a bullet through the handle, shattering the oak. Varga recoiled from the splinters stabbing the flesh in his thick hands. The Hungarian reached behind his back. Blair scanned the building. The door. Varga held a pistol. Blair’s Remingtons erupted. Varga tumbled over backward. He fired again, hitting Varga’s gun hand.
Blair crawled over to him. “It’s not me. I’m human.”
“Lies,” the Hungarian miner said with his last breath.
Blair touched Varga’s still face. “Sorry.”
He slid under a pew. How many left? The three Hungarians. Pruitt. Two others. “That’s six.” He exchanged loaded cylinders. “The odds are getting better.”
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